


Slaughterhouse V(ault)

by yonderdarling



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen, Slaughterhouse-Five, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 07:18:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13071891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonderdarling/pseuds/yonderdarling
Summary: "The Bristol Blitz was the heavy bombing of Bristol by the Luftwaffe during the Second World War. Due to the presence of Bristol Harbour and the Bristol Aeroplane Company it was a target for bombing and easily found as enemy bombers were able to trace a course up the River Avon using reflected moonlight on the waters into the heart of the city. Bristol was the fifth most heavily bombed British city of World War II."So it goes. More a discussion on friendship than anything else, as they wait the bombing out.





	Slaughterhouse V(ault)

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, who knows, really.

"…Are you asleep?"

"No."

 

* * *

 

Distant explosions would be one thing. Near, explosions, more or less the same. They've both lived through bombings and wars, and this war in particular is a popular destination for time travellers looking to observe Normandy from afar or make popcorn and watch Singapore fall to the Japanese. Britain during the Blitz isn't a must-see time though; the Battle of Britain probably ranks highest as a spectator activity.

This is a run-of-the-mill bombing by the Germans over Bristol. Bristol, makes planes, sits on a river. An easy target. Early on the Germans focused on ports and bases, moved to industrial cities such as Bristol, Sheffield (steel) Coventry (plane engines, munitions, cars), Birmingham (planes, small arms, plastic, military vehicles). Then, to London, as if that was the worst of the worst because it wasn't all factories and working-class mastoids.

The Doctor had lectured her at length on it the previous week. Missy had smirked, leant forward, and nodded sagely.

"What?" the Doctor asked.

"Just to clarify. Bombing a city is bad," she said patronisingly, and the Doctor had set his jaw (irritation), and nodded. "The only justifiable violence is that which is to protect or defend. Oh, my Doctor. Your penchant for the British is showing."

"I suppose - that's a place to start," the Doctor said slowly, tensing in his armchair. "Where are you going with this?"

"My weekly reading," Missy said, and cleared her throat. She held her hands in front of her chest, recitation style. "It begins like this: "Listen. listen. _Listen: Billy Pilgrim has come unstuck in time. It ends like this: "Poo-tee-weet?"_

He doesn't move. Then, he speaks.

"That was meant to demonstrate how lower - and higher - beings can be affected by trauma. Even you and and I."

 _"He was proud of never having hurt an innocent bystander. "Nobody ever got it from Lazzaro," he said, "who didn't have it coming,"_ Missy continued.

"Shut up," said the Doctor. "Why can't you at least try at this? Humour me."

"Try harder," she replied. "I'm not an idiot. We simply hold opposing worldviews. I'm willing to change, but this is a debate; I'm not going to be voiceless in this so-called therapy."

"You're not voiceless. I'm not patronising."

"I never said you were being patronising."

"You thought it."

Somehow, perhaps because it was 1941, and the Doctor was seeing his students go off to war, as soldiers or nurses, or head home and not come back, or sign on as Sheffield's guinea pigs because they're conscientious objectors, but for the first time (they've had the Patronizing row fifteen times in the past twenty years, and a row is more than an argument, and they've had the Patronizing argument a hundred times, and the Patronizing tiff, even less than an argument, a thousand times) but for the first time, the first time, the Doctor is the first to raise his voice in the fight, and he ends up throwing something (at the wall) and storming out, and she's alone for a month, except for Nardole's supply runs, and then the Germans bomb Bristol.

 

* * *

 

 

The structure of the Vault does something to the explosions. It's indestructible, of course, but thousands of bombs-worth of force and energy must go somewhere, and it makes the entire structure creak and wobble, and the air gets very hot as bombs rain down from above.

Indestructible. Indestructible.

Missy lies eagle-spread on the floor and feels the floor moving under her, revelling in the difference, the variety, imagining the anger and fear and rage and fire, all that beautiful fire.

Everything was beautiful and everything would hurt. Boom. Crump. Boom, bang, smash. The floor ripples.

And the Vault doors open; for a moment the sound of the bombs grows in the Vault, the Vault's absorption method shifts and directs the energy towards the opening. Then, clang, clang, crash. They're shut. Clunk. Locked.

"Missy?"

She lies, eyes shut, imagining screams.

"Missy? Where are you?" The Doctor crosses the room, checks the empty bed in the dark. "Are you asleep?"

"No."

His feet, on the floor, turning.

"Over here," Missy says, and waves. Her hand is white and sharp in the fake moonlight from the fake window. "What brings you back to the dragon's den?"

"I wanted to check on you." The Doctor stays by the bed. "Are - are you okay? Why are you on the floor?"

"I can feel the war through it."

She can see him, without opening her eyes. He'll rub the bridge of his nose, drop his head into his hands. Slump the shoulders. Deep breath, and he speaks -

"I don't know if that's a good idea," the Doctor murmurs. "Missy?"

"Probably not. Please leave."

"Give me one good reason."

"It's my birthday."

A heavy sigh. "It's not your goddamn - " there's a squeak, of bedsprings and bedframe, and that's the Doctor sitting on the bed. "Missy?"

Something in his voice changes. It cracks. Missy slowly sits, looks over at him, blinking softly. The Doctor sits on the edge of the bed, curved over, head in his hands.

"Missy, my students all live out there. This is - "

She is tempted to stay on the floor. She sits, stands, leans against one of the armchairs and appraises him.

"You're not crying, are you? Think of it as a mercy for them. A death in a famous historical event; better than dying in a nursing home after years of bingo and incontinence."

His voice is thick. "I don't think - they'd see it that way."

"Humans have short lifespans, regardless. All - "

"I came here for comfort, all right?" the Doctor snaps. "You said I've been patronising - well, you've said it several thousand times over the past twenty years, so here's something new. Here's me, coming to you, for help. I've given you everything I can think of over the past two decades. Here's all I have left - what remains of our friendship."

Missy sits on the armchair slowly, finds the knife edge of anger inside her chest. "And where's Nardole? He busy?"

"No, he's off sulking in the TARDIS because I came here instead of using River's traditional sadness-recovery methods."

"Remind me. Is that fucking everything with a pulse in sight?" Missy asks sweetly. "Or just implying you'd like to fuck everything with a pulse in sight?"

The Doctor stands in one fluid motion, turns towards the doors.

"Fine." says Missy. "Alright. That was out of line." He clearly wants - something. And he's not a hugger, this time around. "I - I am sorry, about that, you know. Relationships never work out for Time Lords. Not with other Time Lords or Ladies, not with the Shabogans, not with humans, not with other aliens - "

"Well, in addition to basic kindness and humanity, we need to work on your comforting," says the Doctor, but he sits down slowly in the dark. "Missy?"

"You should stay here," Missy says. "You know, in case there's a stray bomb that hits your office, or a bit of shrapnel."

"You might prefer a new face on me?"

"Maybe. I like that face too," says Missy. "Go to sleep. You sound tired."

"I kind of want to talk to you about how you're - conceptualising the bombings," the Doctor murmurs, but he kicks his shoes off and lies down quickly.

"You'll be here in the morning for that," Missy says. "For better or for worse."

"When did you last sleep?" the Doctor asks in the dark.

Blankets rustle as Missy counts.

"What month is it?" she asks.

"Get in, then."

Another explosion goes off, closer, and the whole Vault shakes.

"I thought we weren't sleeping together," Missy says.

"Well, it's been twenty years of little progress, and I know this will take time, but it'll be easier if we both have a kip." The Doctor yawns, and rolls onto his side. "I mean, do what you like. Really."

"I'm not your wife."

"You most certainly are not. Right now I'm asking you to be my friend."

At this, Missy stands, and stretches, and feels the floor roll under her. She steps forward, then steps back, settles in the armchair. "I'll sit with you," she says, and the Doctor makes a grumpy 'hmm' noise, like he used to, a million years ago.

And distantly. Crump, crump, boom, bang. A loud crack.

"It'll be over soon. They have to cross the channel before dawn," says the Doctor sleepily, and Missy doesn't have it in her to correct him. "Wow, I really am exhausted."

"As am I." Missy stares over at the Doctor's form. He gazes at the ceiling. "Listen. Listen. We have become stuck in time. In method. In form."

"We have. This is new. New might be good."

"Okay."

 

Silence, for a while.

 

 

"Go back to sleep, Doctor," says Missy, and he must. She does too.

 

 

More bombs, in the distance, and the Vault shifts, groans. The Doctor makes a low noise; sad.

Missy stands, knees creaking as she unfolds herself from the armchair. She sits on the edge of the mattress, and the Doctor takes her hand in his calloused palm. She squeezes his fingers.

"Afterwards," Missy says. "I know it's painful. Listen. But they believe, after death - that everything is beautiful, and nothing hurts. What's that prayer they have? I read it in that Vonnegut book."

He traces her wrist. "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom always to tell the difference," he recites. "I've put you in the middle category."

"Uh-huh."

"Are you?"

"You're a Doctor, a wise man. We'll just have to see."

**Author's Note:**

> Quotes from Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five, which is a must-read. Feedback appreciated.


End file.
